


loosen up my buttons, babe.

by winterwinterwinter



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-07 14:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwinterwinter/pseuds/winterwinterwinter
Summary: it's just sex.





	1. rimming.

**Author's Note:**

> this one is named after the 2006 classic "buttons" by the pussycat dolls, featuring snoop dogg. no, i do not have any taste.

_it’ll feel real good,_ wrench had said.

fuck. what an _understatement_.

numbers is gripping the sheets so tightly in his fists, he thinks he might rip holes in them. he can feel wrench’s thumbs where they’re digging into him, spreading him open. he’s wet, so _wet_ from wrench’s ministrations; he can feel a little tickle as little rivulets of saliva slide down his thighs.

wrench works his tongue inside, just as he had moments ago, adjusting his thumbs, holding him open even more. he wriggles his tongue about inside him, licking at him and numbers thinks i could come just like this. he wonders if wrench is hard from this, from pressing his mouth to numbers’s hole and fucking him like that, from tasting numbers like that, from eating at him so ravenously, thoroughly. he wonders if wrench’s dick is pouring precome, dribbly-wet like he is himself, and he licks his lips picturing it -

numbers abruptly crashes back to earth when wrench pulls away from his ass and slaps at his back.

numbers manages a shaky breath, and sighs when wrench helps him sit up, pulling at his shoulders. the first thing numbers’s eyes fall on is wrench’s chin, spit-shiny, and everything inside him flutters.

 _you okay?_ wrench says.

“better than okay,” numbers says. he feels his dick throb, and he shudders. _more?_

wrench grins, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. _you sure that’s a good idea? you know, too much of a good thing and all,_ he says.

“fuck,” numbers says. _to hell with that!_ and he throws a hand into wrench’s hair, tugs his head forward.

 _don’t you know where this mouth of mine has been, brat?_ wrench says, a smug look on his face.

“i don’t give a fuck,” numbers mumbles before wrench falls the rest of the way into him, mouth first.


	2. outdoor sex.

numbers is twenty-four, and he’s naked and panting and looking up at the stars from under his thick, dark fringe. wrench is on top of him, fucking exhausted, sweaty cheek pressed to numbers’s equally sweaty neck. numbers feebly strokes at wrench’s back, up and down, and tries to follow the lines of the constellations above them with his tired eyes.

the cabin is behind them, a syndicate safehouse, one of dozens just like it. their last assignment had gone tits up, and they drove further and further north for hours until they were sure they were safe, as safe as they could be, being who they are. orders were to hide out, lay low, wait for a signal. they’re spread out on a blanket in the grass, wrench’s idea after hours of sitting bored and idle, _let’s stargaze._

_okay, queer,_ numbers had said, wrench glaring at him.

and it was numbers's fault, of course, that stargazing had turned into kisses, had turned into necking, had turned into numbers tugging wrench on top of him. numbers can feel the come drying between them, feels it fusing their bellies together, and it’s disgusting but he’s tired, and wrench is tired, and wrench is heavy.

wrench knew all the constellations. mr. tripoli had taught him, a long time ago now. numbers could only just barely point out the north star and the milky way - survival tools.

“get off me, you fuckin’ lard,” numbers groans half-heartedly, wrapping his arms back around wrench’s shoulders, holding him there despite his own gripes. “can’t move…”

wrench rolls the pair of them onto their sides, and he looks at numbers. numbers looks back, and they grin at each other, some shared mischief, some shared joy. they kiss, a soft, simple peck, and wrench unwinds numbers’s arms from his shoulders and sits up on his knees.

_come here,_ he says. _put your arm back over my shoulders._

numbers eyes him, but he does it, and wrench puts one arm around his back, the other under his legs. he stands, grunting with a little effort, and wobbles a bit. numbers feels it and yelps a little, clinging to his partner.

wrench laughs at him, and he half-walks, half-stumbles the pair of them to the cabin door.

numbers is twenty-four, and he feels it, the cool summer breeze brushing his body, the look in his partner's eyes when they get back inside, the feeling of their bodies against each other. _grady_ is twenty-four, and for another night he can pretend like they don't kill people for money, and that this is just a vacation, just himself, and wes, and the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: yeah i'm gonna do a collection that's just naughty stuff with no gooey feelings or sentimentality.
> 
> me: ...
> 
> (writes gooey feelings and sentimentality and completely skips over the porn bit)


	3. first time.

it wasn’t glamorous. it wasn’t elegant or hot, it wasn’t even sexy - it was awkward, and a little weird, and a little gross. it was nothing like what porn had promised it would be.

it was better. it was perfect.

grady’s laying against wes, head on wes’s shoulder, window cracked, puffing on a cigarette. he’s wiped out, limbs loose and heavy, hair a complete mess. wes’s arm is around his waist, he trails his fingers up and down grady’s hipbone through the thin top sheet they’re both half-under. wes’s other hand is scratching just under his own belly button, and grady savors the sight, the sound, the mundanity. how normal and natural it feels to lay with him like this.  


they don’t need to talk. not now. all that grady needed to say, he said with his legs around wes’s waist, with his mouth on wes’s neck.

wes shifts a bit, settles deeper into the bed. he takes grady with him, the arm around his waist pulling and possessive.

grady reaches up to the windowsill, stubs his cig out in the ashtray there, and he lays down, and he turns toward wes, curling up on his side, an arm across wes’s chest. his head is still on his shoulder. wes pulls at the sheet, tugging it up to grady’s chin. it’s not enough - not really. it’s summer, but the nights are still chilly, and the window’s open, but wes generates enough heat to make up for grady’s lack of it.

the lamp is still on, but grady can’t reach it, and he doesn’t want to move. but he grumbles anyway, “wessss, turn off the light…” wes doesn’t hear him and doesn’t read him, flat on his back and eyes closed. it doesn’t matter.

grady falls asleep anyway, dreaming blue and shimmery and warm, abstract diamonds of thoughts and visions, a shadow of sex and satisfaction in every image.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this is porn, right? the bit that happens after they're done??


	4. mirror.

numbers is watching himself in the mirror, clinging to the sink with one hand and biting the wrist of the other as wrench thrusts into him, holding his hips so so tight. they're locked in the bathroom (family-style, toilet in the corner, lock on the door) of the diner they stopped in for lunch. or, were _supposed_ to stop in for lunch. now they had to finish up, drive away, and find another, since numbers couldn't contain himself.

his hair has slackened from the sweat, from wrench grabbing at it, and it flops against his forehead. he can feel the teeth of wrench’s zipper biting at his haunch.

you slut, numbers thinks, staring at himself, his flushed cheeks, his blissed-out eyes, eyelids heavy over them. he feels, _sees_ his cheeks flaring from his harsh thoughts: just couldn’t wait, huh? had to drag him in here and beg him to fuck you -

his dirty monologue is interrupted by wrench leaning forward, pressing his chest against numbers’s back. he snakes a hand up to lay gently across numbers’s throat, and kisses at his temple, his cheek. his other hand grips around numbers’s dick, where it hangs hot and throbbing between his legs.

their eyes meet in the mirror as wrench begins to suck on numbers’s ear, and he smiles so fondly and sweetly at numbers that he loses it - he tenses, and comes, hips rocking, and feels it pour out of him, over wrench’s fingers and knuckles. he hears the smallest _splat_ as some dribbles onto the damp, tiled floor.

wrench’s arms crisscross his body then, across his hips and across his shoulders, gripping tight tight tight as wrench fucks into him, still biting at his ear, until he comes too. numbers watches him as he orgasms, sees more than feels the way he squeezes numbers in his arms, the way he buries his face in the side of numbers's head. he lets out a quiet, ragged groan, right into numbers’s ear, and numbers gets _chills_.

numbers tries to avoid his own gaze in the mirror as they hastily clean up. he’s ashamed - can’t face himself, can’t acknowledge himself and consider what he’d said to himself. he’s embarrassed of the man he’d watched shamelessly ask for it, take it, get off on it.

maybe wrench notices his contrition - he crowds numbers against the wall before they leave and kisses him tenderly, reaching down to rebuckle his belt for him and zip him back up. he tugs playfully at numbers’s bottom lip with his teeth, and nips at the end of his nose as he pulls away.

the look in wrench’s eyes says it enough, but numbers wants to see it spelled out for him, needs it. _hey, fuck you,_ he says strategically, kicking childishly at wrench’s shin.

wrench rolls his eyes. _i believe it was_ you _that just got fucked,_ he says. he kisses at numbers’s jaw a little, kisses from his ear to his chin, rubbing at his chest, before he pecks at numbers’s mouth with a finality, standing back and straightening out his shirts. _love you._

numbers’s heart flutters just the same way it has for fifteen-odd years, his only weakness, his only vice, his only belief: wes’s hands professing his love. _yeah, yeah,_ numbers says, pausing to run a hand through his destroyed hair. _whatever. let’s get out of this place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm updating this until i catch up with myself. you know who my next fic will be about?? pearl nygaard. i know, i don't know why either.


	5. "i missed you."

wrench is greeted at the door by numbers, rushing at him, kissing him, nearly leaping at him. wrench immediately drops the duffel bag in his hands and places them instead on numbers's waist, falling into step and kissing him back despite how tired he is. he’d been gone four days, three nights - had numbers really missed him that much?

numbers leads wrench just inside their apartment, kicking the door shut on the way, pressing himself to the wall of the hallway so wrench can hold him there. wrench can feel numbers’s lips buzzing, like he’s saying something, so he pulls away and says _what are you saying?_

numbers is looking up at him with that sweet look, the one he gets bitchy about if wrench ribs him over it. _not saying anything,_ numbers says.

 _can feel it,_ wrench says. _tickles almost as much as this._ and he lovingly rubs his nose against numbers’s beard, which makes him laugh.

 _telling you to fuck me like you mean it,_ numbers says, trying to look lustful, trying to look like he really wants it, like he’s on fire. but it doesn't really work - his eyes still betray that sweetness, that softness.

 _no you’re not,_ wrench says. _you missed me._

 _like i miss a migraine,_ numbers says before putting both hands on wrench’s cheeks. he leans up and kisses wrench, gentle and slow - delicate, wrench can feel every inch of his mouth, every fold, pink and perfect, his tongue soft and just a little sour - and that’s when he knows exactly what numbers is after.

wrench crouches, gets his hands under numbers’s ass, and numbers understands and he helps him out, grabbing his shoulders, and then his legs are around his waist, arms clinging to his shoulders.

“bedroom,” wrench feels against his mouth. “bedroom, bedroom…” and he doesn’t understand because it's hard to tell a word when it's being said into your mouth, but he knows it, and he’s shifting numbers in his arms and hustling down the hall in no time.

he missed numbers too, after all.


	6. grooming.

wrench is sitting between numbers’s knees on the floor, half-watching the news on channel 6 while numbers carefully combs his hair, just dry enough after his shower. it’s just one of numbers’s _things,_ brushing wrench’s hair, something that wrench understands in the abstract. numbers runs his hand through wrench’s hair, ostensibly ruining his own efforts, and then wrench feels the comb again.

for wrench, it’s nice and relaxing. he likes the feel of numbers’s hands in his hair, the tug of the comb, the way numbers holds onto his shoulder while he works.

but for numbers -

 _almost done?_ wrench says, twisting to glance back at him on the couch.

numbers’s hands hover where wrench’s head had been. he has that soft, bashful look on his face as he follows wrench’s eyes down to the tent in his sweatpants. he nods. wrench faces forward again, and numbers’s hands return to his hair.

for numbers, it’s erotic.

wrench isn’t sure why. he just knows that after numbers finishes with his hair, he’ll have a boner and he’ll either tug wrench onto the couch with him or scamper away, embarrassed of his own desires for some reason.

wrench closes his eyes, starts to lean into numbers’s hands and really relax when he feels a gentle slap at his shoulder. he turns just enough to see numbers say _finished._

wrench shifts around in his seat on the floor, grabs onto numbers’s knees so he can’t escape. he stares up at his partner, all red in the face, as he leans in and nuzzles his clothed crotch. numbers lets out a deep breath, wrench watches his chest move. he still has the comb in one hand, but he drops it next to him on the couch, raises his hands to speak.

 _don’t look at me like that,_ numbers says.

 _like what?_ wrench says, biting at the fabric and pulling.

 _you know,_ numbers says.

wrench slips his fingers under numbers’s waistbands - sweats, boxer-briefs - on either hip. numbers lifts himself so wrench can slide them down just enough, and his cock is there, then, flushed, hard, _there._

wrench licks his lips, grabs numbers’s knees and jerks him forward, diving in to kiss softly at his dick, laving his tongue over it before wrapping his mouth around it.

he feels numbers’s hands cradling his head, feels his fingers thread through his curls and pull. and he almost smiles, idly wondering what numbers would do if he shaved it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is just weird.


	7. shower sex.

sex on the job was against the rules. _their_ rules, of course - partnerships like theirs weren’t commonplace enough for a widespread consensus like that. so, as numbers groggily sheds his clothes on the way to the bathroom, tucked in the back corner of their motel room, he tries to shake wrench off.

“stop,” numbers groans as wrench tries again to caress his waist. “fucking stop.” but his heart’s not in it. he doesn’t really care, not so much, it’s mostly annoying. and the “no sex” rule had been wrench's idea in the first place, but he was constantly breaking it. and doesn’t wrench ever  _ realize _ when numbers isn't in the mood? he was the perceptive one. it would be flattering, how infatuated wrench still is with him, almost two decades on, but numbers is sleep-tousled and grumpy and he wants to get the day over with.

but wrench follows him into the bathroom, nearly stepping on his heels, he’s walking so close. numbers turns the shower on, twists the knob all the way to the left, as hot as it can be, and tries to ignore wrench kissing up his neck, sliding his hands around to rub at his belly.

numbers turns around in his arms. he can feel himself, heavy and tired, as he stares up at his partner, who looks back at him with those pretty green eyes, wide and alert and full of naked admiration. numbers sighed. he was always weak for this boy, this man, and that would never change.

_you’re irresistible,_ wrench says, a weak defense.

“whatever,” numbers says. _get the lube and give me a minute with the hot water._

sex on the job was against the rules. their rules. but, it was morning, and they weren’t technically on the job _yet_ , and that’s what numbers told himself as he stepped under the scalding spray.


	8. watching porn.

does the room have a vcr?

numbers cocks his head, reading the text. wrench was out grabbing dinner from some italian place the lobby had a menu for.

what? numbers texts back.

just tell me, i’m getting us something.

“hm,” numbers grunts. he sits up, having been curled up on his side, resting his body after a long, uncomfortable car ride. the first night back on the job was always the roughest.

yeah there’s a vcr.

okay. back in fifteen. xxx.

xxx, numbers replies, laying back down, too tired to be curious.

  


wrench was back in ten. not that numbers was counting.

 _finally,_ numbers says from the bed, where he lays, changed into his preferred pajamas on the road: boxers and one of wrench’s flannel shirts. _starving._

 _brought you dinner and a show, honey,_ wrench says before he sets both a takeout bag and a black, suspicious-looking plastic bag on the table.

 _a show?_ numbers says.

wrench grins and reaches into the black bag. from inside he pulls a vhs tape with a very vibrant cover. he tosses it onto the bed, where it lands at numbers’s feet.

“fuck is this?” numbers says, staring down at it.

numbers scans the cover, the bright, attention-grabbing letters and half-naked ladies, and he realizes: it’s porn. wrench bought porn.

numbers looks from the vhs at his feet to wrench, and back again. wrench can barely contain his smile, and numbers can’t help it. he smiles back, and starts laughing.

wrench drags the table in the corner over, positioning it in front of the tv. he grabs the chairs while numbers takes their food from the bag before turning on the vcr and popping the tape in.

numbers barely lasts a moment - the awful, try-hard synth music starts immediately and he dissolves into giggles over his dinner. it doesn’t take long for the egregious, phoned-in moans and groans to follow. wrench can’t quite appreciate the soundtrack like numbers can, but there’s plenty of visual action, and usually if numbers is laughing this hard then wrench is quick to follow.

their food is cold by the time they settle down enough to eat. and numbers thinks he’s mostly over it, watching the almost acrobatic positions the couple on screen are contorting themselves into, but then wrench nudges his elbow while the woman is supporting herself with her hands on the floor, her partner slamming it from behind, holding her legs, and says _think we could try that?_ with his awful little smirk.

and then they both succumb to laughter once more.


	9. morning sex.

wrench wakes up the way he usually does: arms filled with numbers, pressed chest-to-back, with his nose pressed into his handsome, dark, unruly mane. he sighs, takes a deep sniff of numbers’s hair, savoring the phantom scent of his shampoo and product, and settles back in. if numbers isn’t up, wrench doesn’t have to be, and it was rare they got to sleep in like this. wrench squeezes numbers, just a little, just to feel him laying there.

wrench is almost drifting off to sleep again when he feels numbers pressing back against him, wriggling that perfect little ass of his. he’s awake again almost immediately, and he splays a hand out on numbers’s stomach and presses forward in response. he feel numbers’s belly quake with a chuckle, and he smiles into his hair.

they rock together, nice and slow and lazy, until numbers worms his way out of wrench’s arms and shoves him back into the mattress, climbing over him. wrench grins up at him when he straddles his hips, and he runs his hands over numbers’s belly.

 _you wake up on the right side of the bed?_ numbers says, swaying over wrench’s lap.

 _always do with you,_ wrench says, and winks, because he knows numbers will love it.

numbers rolls his eyes, and his mouth moves in a way that wrench reads as a meaningless grumble. _you give me cavities,_ he says.

wrench shrugs and strokes his knuckles over numbers’s crotch, rubbing gently, pressing into the semidamp fabric. numbers slumps a little, and rolls his hips into it, and his face unfurls into an expression of relaxed satisfaction - the cat that got the canary. his head tips back when wrench reaches in and touches him, warm-on-warmer.

 _should be asking you that,_ wrench manages with one hand. he wraps his hand around numbers, firm and tight but mindful, and begins to leisurely stroke. he relishes it when numbers’s head tips forward again and he bites his lip, an action so simple that it shouldn’t have wrench’s hand stuttering so soon, but it does. grady could blink and wrench would gasp, he could breathe and wrench's heart would flutter.

numbers grabs wrench’s wrist and pulls his hand away. he stretches, catlike, over wrench and presses their bodies together, chest-to-chest. they kiss, and they kiss, and wrench feels numbers rubbing up against his belly, over his shirt, and they kiss, and they kiss, and kiss...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we reach the end of our naughties.


End file.
